been a while since i written
been a while since i written
living in a song that’s unwritten
a song that can’t be written.
Prayer Request
Yesterday, one of my students hit another student. I walk in and a student is crying, while the other student is glaring at his computer with a stoic frustration. One of the younger girls screams that he hit the boy for no reason, I knew there was a reason. I slept four hours the night before and was in a minor delirium from the cup of coffee I drank on my way to work. In that instance, I am pounding on the doors of my own eyes, pleading that my conscious wake up.
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I took the boy who hit the student into a separate room to talk with him, or more so, rebuke. As I was scolding the boy, I saw tears glazing his eyes. I was trapt. This kid has a habit of pushing people away and creating silos where he is forced to be alone. Usually, I have little patience for his antics because his barricades are cemented, so I don’t try to budge them. Yet, this day, I saw him on the verge of breaking, inching his way slowly to the gates of his high walls, hands reaching towards an opening and eyes peering to the outside.
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I leave the room and asked the children what had happened. They all yell different stories, but end up saying that one of the students said that the student (who got hit) called the boy fat. So the boy hit him. I instantly understood the situation. But understanding was not enough. I walk back into the room not confident in my approach to displaying balance of love and discipline.
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I tried building a bridge. I told him that I wanted to be there for him; he burnt it down. He told me that he didn’t know what I was talking about. I told him that I see him, setting himself a part, pushing the teachers and other students away from him. I told him that I wanted to be there for him. There was a huge chasm that separated us, so I reached out my hand; he turned away. He said he didn’t know what I was talking about.
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In my heart, I felt a kindling flame, a revisiting of an old love that I was once acquainted with in my earlier years as an adolescent. I wanted to give it to him. I wanted so bad to give it to him. The room felt smaller. I felt a swelling within the room, an aroma reminiscent of fire burning wood in winter. I walked out the room, and closed the door behind me. By this time, the headmaster was on her way in to talk with the boy. The chasm felt wider than before, the walls higher. But the fire within my heart, was burning.
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Annunciation
I saw my soul become flesh breaking open
the linseed oil breaking over the paper
running down pouring
no one to catch it my life breaking open
no one to contain it my
pelvis thinning out into God
.
Jean Valentine
Untitled
There is no poetry left in me that belongs to you,
the one I wrote this summer has become lost
within the stash of archives
Rain, Weddings, and Los Angeles
The sun slowly lays down between the cityscape a far, parting from the grungy fog that is still apparent in 6pm evenings. As my mom and I drive to Koreatown, passing through Montebello, I reminisce of my early adolescent years gazing into Los Angeles and wondering where I came from and why we left. My parents arrived in Koreatown one month after they got married. Tonight there was a tinge of romance accompanying us on the drive; Though Christmas is near, I do not blame this warm atmosphere on the holiday seasons, but rather the rain.
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Ever since I entered college, or early womanhood, my mom reminds me that rainy days are signs of good luck. As the sprinkles drizzle on our window, I think of her in a modest white gown, lace covering the dents of her collarbones and chisels of her shoulders. I know her face was glowing from the dampness of the air, awaiting her moment of awakening to a new self, joined with her husband, my father, who entered into matrimony with the same humility of the marriage itself, triumphing in the rain—a climate most resist and dread.
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My hands are still clenching her hands, our fingers intertwined and anchored. The sweat is bothersome, but the bind is so securing and affirming. It has been six to seven years since my last boyfriend. I am no longer haunted by my own prior deceit, but I will never forget the sense of exploitation that has forever kept me as a guard of my own heart.
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My mom is only 57 years of age. Looking at her profile, I am drawn to how the corners of her eyes pinch in like mine. Her hair curls right above her cheekbone as mine does. The rain drops have begun to slap the window in a slightly quicker rhythm. My ipod plays an old Hillsong’s track, which brought an overcoming heaviness of a feeling that was uncontainable. I release her hands and tie my hair as a scapegoat.
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It probably smelled like wet cement that day. Her skin always looked good damp. The edge of her dress probably dragged and got wet; she must have been concerned about the extra fees that would be charged when she returns it. Guests most likely woke up that morning feeling sorry for my parents because the rainy day intruded on their wedding. I remember on my cousin’s wedding, she cried because of the rain. My mom probably thanked the Lord for the shower. My dad probably cupped his hands and tried to catch every rain drop that would fall on the ground on the day he was to marry my mom. They probably kissed in the rain, not the kind with passion and zeal, but one that signifies longevity.
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It’s raining in Los Angeles tonight; the car, the soles of my shoes, my bangs, our house, our mailbox and the ground of the city are all wet with rain.
His Hands
Your hands are exactly what I imagined them to look like, veins running like rivers down from your forearm to your knuckles, worn and used. Your hands have yet to hold mine, but I imagine mine would at first fit awkwardly into yours, but after some moments of our warmth, they would manage to link in a way unique to their own. My mom has always told me that I have a villager’s hands, ones that appear to have dug deep into dirt, rather than salvaged from the sun and preserved in warm rooms flipping pages of a book. Your hands are like mine, those that belong to workers.
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You were supposed to be much shorter and thicker in the arms, broader in the shoulders. I expected someone less assertive and more of a quiet leadership, but you are so loud and opinionated. You are much more handsome than the men I have dated in the past. You have no eye for the aesthetics of art nor a keen fashion sense; you still wear black and white converse with unfitted jeans. Last time, you told me my poems are simply nice. When asked what you assumed the poem meant, you stuttered in your response. You stutter often when you speak. I would not say that you know all my facets and personalities nor catch my nuances and subtle humor. Yet, you are the first man that has not mused over me and defined me as one of your ideas. You are the first one that has not stared at me with intrigue.
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It is fine that you do not know all of me; I do not expect you to. Most have assumed that position and have later realized their failure; do not assume that I will perfectly fit into your hands because I won’t—give me some time to warm up. It is fine that you do not understand me, or at least for now. When I look at you, you are much different from what I expected; I like you because you are much different from what I expected. Except your hands, they look like mine and my fathers’, belonging to workers, faithful.
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Hold my hand, steady. And you do not even have to tell me that you will stay; you don’t have to tell me promises for me to believe, just hold our home in your palms, steady, and I will believe.
it’s a shame when brilliant artists waste all their talent on their own egos.
My room
I turned the knob slightly to the right, gently pushed the door with my other hand. The creeping of the door echoed in the silence of my hallway. I walk into darkness and slowly felt the wall to my right for a light switch. Lights on. My bed is how I left it, clothes thrown all across the mattress, sheets halfway off, and laptop on my pillow. My carpet has faded from tan to an off-whitish since high school. This morning as I walk in, there are no echoing of my thoughts nor cycling of scenarios, consuming my imagination. This morning I feel a muse exhaling out of my lungs, not into, but out of, something is coming out from within.
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A rare custom to find peace in my own room; quite an unexpected overcoming of comfort in the silence of the room where I usually refrain from over engaging in any other activities than to sleep and wake. A friend once expressed that it came to her surprise that someone like me would ever feel alone, and hate it. In her oblivion, she never saw that I am mostly alone. Recently, my fingers have scaled through old journals, shifting through my adolescent mess, reading into who I used to become, trying to get a sense of who I become, will become. The diary entries are all written to myself; I wonder if I knew back then that I would feel lonely again someday and wrote these letters to accompany me when I am searching in the dark.
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This is the room I used to light all my candles and dip each finger tip into the dry wax, welcoming the tinge of burn. The very room I found poetry already written on the lines of my palms; I would follow the trails and read each lyric. This room was the very room I would grab oil crayons and draw pictures and draw across my wall. In this room, I would lay upon my tan carpet, teaching myself to draw and write; I took pictures of myself every day and pasted them into my journal.
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Oh how uneventful this change of atmosphere, yet unexpected. With no invitation, peace just came and swept into this place while I was gone. I know this, because this is not how I left my room.
Korea in Glendale
I press my palms against the asphalt and the rocks indent into my skin. The prickling is far from irksome, but rather enjoyable. I lift my hands as some of the rocks loose grip and fall to the ground, while the last ones standing cling onto the caves that they have dug into my hand. On Sundays, my school becomes my church. My dad pastors the church that uses this building, so the principal lets me and my brother go to school here, instead of the one that is closer to our apartment.
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I look up and gaze at the back of the girl’s head, who is sitting in front of me—blonde hair and blue eyes. I turn around and see that the boy behind me is wearing a cobalt blue knit sweater and hair comb to the side.
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Today, like every day, I dressed myself: Christmas long sleeves, navy tights with green and pink polka dots, and light up Velcro sneakers that a church member’s mom bought me from her store at the swap meet. I know it’s not December, but it’s my favorite shirt. Suddenly, the bell violently rang and my heart jumped up and pulled me to my feet. I quickly brushed my hands together and the rocks fell to the floor.
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The girl in front me of turns around and asks me, “Are you related to Mrs. C?”
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“Um…no.”
“Is she your aunt?”
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I look down and see that she is wearing brand new sketchers, pink and blue. My gaze slowly shifts to my shoes that now look childish and outdated with its Velcro flaps unable to stick because they have lost its grip.
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“Where are you from?”
“Glendale…I live down the street. I walked here this morning.”
She looks intently and asks another question,
“NOoooo, where are you from? Like what are you?”
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I’m not sure where this going, so I bend down to my shoes and try to stick the ends of my straps down—no luck, they remain as they were. I can feel her hovering over me. Out of discomfort, I stand tall and straight.
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“What Asian are you?”
“No, I am Korean.”
“What? What is that?! Mrs. C is Chinese! Are you Chinese?”
“Noooo, I’m Korean. My mom and dad are from Korea. My dad is from North Korea. My mom is from South Korea.”
“Is that Chinese???”
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Her loud and piercing voice creates each word to feel like a brick, accumulating on my shoulders with each word she speaks. I am tired of her inquiries. I am tired of her facial expressions that demand an answer that is expected. I am tired of her blond hair and nice shoes. I do not like my hair that is black and straight, falling flat to my head. My shoes, they are outdated—who even wears light up shoes anymore? I want to go to Angela Cho’s school that is right next to my apartment. I want to run back home. I want to pull this girl’s hair that is glistening now in the sun and naturally curls down to her collarbones.
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I gaze into her eyes with intent and warning and quietly inform her in a low, but strained voice,
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“I am Korean. From Korea…I’m Korean…Korean.”
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In an instance, she looks to floor. I clench my fist. She turns around and chatters with the girl in front of her. They laugh and I kneel to the floor, press my hands upon the asphalt so that I feel a tinge, and pick out each rock that has stuck onto my palm—I just want to go home.
